Lord Bael was in a good mood.
That was rare enough to note.
He sat behind his broad desk, legs crossed, a glass of dark red wine resting near his hand. The room smelled faintly of old wood, ink, and demonic power that had seeped into the furniture over centuries.
I stood opposite him, dressed as usual in black, my aura settled into its new configuration. High level high class. It sat around me like compressed gravity.
He regarded me for a moment, then huffed a quiet laugh.
"I can see why Zekram likes you," he said.
Zekram Bael. The ancestor, the old schemer in the foundations of our clan. The one who had supported my engagement to Rias with full pressure. His liking was not a small thing, but considering his support, I'd say it was expected.
"That is good to know," I said.
Father swirled the wine lazily.
"We are idiots sometimes," he said. "Bael men. We see one thing in front of us and chase it. I saw Sairaorg's talent for training and thought, 'Perhaps he can be shaped.' Zekram saw you become serious and immediately said, 'That one is ours.'"
He took a sip, eyes half lidded.
"And now, looking at you," he continued, "I think the old monster was right."
There was no affection in his voice when he said "right". There was approval.
"The peerage invitation plan is good," he added. "The servants could deliver it on your word if you wish. Are you sure you want to go through with this farce yourself?"
"It is not a farce," I said calmly. "It is an investment. In perception."
He smirked.
"A true devil," he said. "You ask a disowned half-brother you helped push aside to join your peerage, so that when he refuses, he becomes the ungrateful one. Meanwhile you stand there looking wounded and righteous, and everyone praises your generosity."
"That is roughly the model," I agreed.
He laughed properly then, a short, sharp sound.
"Zekram said you think like us," he said. "He was flattering you. You think worse than us. In a good way."
I did not correct him. The thought patterns came from a different architecture, but the output matched devil logic well enough.
His smile faded slightly as he shifted topics.
"There are reports Misla is about to fall into sleeping sickness," he said.
I had already seen that in the information flow. Misla Bael. Sairaorg's mother. My father's wife in name, though he treated her as little more than a political casualty.
"I see," I said.
He frowned faintly.
"I despise her," he said, tone flat. "She gave birth to that talentless child and damaged my reputation. Then she coddled him instead of forcing him to manifest the Power of Destruction."
His jaw tightened for a second, then relaxed.
"But," he continued, "it goes against my pride to let a Bael live like a beggar. Even a failed one. So I pay the bills. Our healers check on her. They do what they can. And even if she and Sairaorg are not allowed in the estate, they do not live in poverty."
His voice carried no warmth. Only statement.
"We are too rich," he said idly, "to be that petty."
I understood the subtext.
It matched what I knew from the archives.
After the civil war, the territory Bael obtained was vast. If one mapped it over my old world, it would cover more than the United States. Fallen houses, defectors, failures, all had paid heavy fines to the Great King. Wealth concentrated here like gravity.
He would not lift a finger to save Misla emotionally, but Bael would not be seen as miserly. Pride and image first.
"That is another reason your plan is amusing," he added. "You invite Sairaorg to your peerage, offer him and his mother a path back into the estate, and when he refuses, no one can accuse us of cruelty. Only him of pride."
"It aligns with our interests," I said simply.
He set the glass down.
"Go then," he said. "Take a couple of your peerage members, make it look suitably earnest. I will have the servants ready to spread a tasteful version of what happens."
He smirked again.
"It will be good for the clan if people talk about how my son tried to help his unfortunate half-brother," he said. "And how that half-brother spat on his hand."
"A mutually beneficial narrative," I said.
"Exactly," he said.
He waved me away, still amused.
I left the study with the parameters set.
Data point 1: Father fully aware of manipulation. Fully supportive. No intention to help Sairaorg beyond maintaining his own pride.
It fit.
Outside, Kuroka and Akeno were waiting.
Kuroka leaned against the wall with her arms behind her head, tail swaying lazily. Her golden eyes flicked to me and she grinned.
"Going somewhere fun nya?" she asked.
Akeno stood more properly, hands folded, expression composed. Only a small twist at the corner of her lips betrayed interest.
"To visit Sairaorg," I said. "You two will come. Shirone stays here."
Kuroka's ears twitched.
"The half-brother you replaced," she said.
"Yes," I replied.
Akeno tilted her head.
"What for?" she asked.
"An invitation," I said. "And a story."
They did not ask further. They both understood enough of me now to know that when I did something like this, there was always more than one layer.
We traveled using a Bael circle calibrated to the property where Misla and Sairaorg lived.
It was still reasonably large by common standards. High walls, a respectable house, clean grounds. Not the central estate, but not exile to a ditch either.
When we arrived, servants hurried to greet us, clearly flustered.
"Magdaran-sama," one said, bowing low. "We were not informed—"
"Do not worry," I said. "I will not be long. Announce us."
He ran inside.
Kuroka glanced around.
"Nice enough place," she said. "Not exactly 'thrown away to the wolves.'"
"Father would never let a Bael actually starve," I said. "He would consider that an insult to himself."
Akeno's eyes moved over the grounds, her expression unreadable.
"The air feels… frustrated," she said softly.
She was not wrong.
After a few minutes, Sairaorg emerged.
He was taller than me, older by a few years, muscles already developing from constant training. No demonic aura of destruction around him, only raw physical solidity. His eyes widened slightly when he saw me, then narrowed in wary confusion.
"Magdaran," he said. No honorific.
"Sairaorg," I replied, tone neutral.
We faced each other in the front yard, Kuroka and Akeno behind me like shadows.
"What brings the esteemed heir here?" he asked, voice polite but hard. "Come to inspect the trash?"
There was bitterness in the words, but not as much as the original timeline might have held. My presence in this world had altered some currents. Still, pain remained.
"I came to offer something," I said.
His jaw clenched.
"Spare me your pity," he started.
"It is not pity," I said calmly. "It is logistics."
He frowned.
"What?" he asked, thrown slightly off balance by the word, probably because he couldn't understand it.
"Misla-sama's condition is worsening," I said. "You know this."
His eyes flickered.
"She is being treated," he said. "That is enough."
"Is it?" I asked. "Living away from the main estate, with limited access to high grade care, limited protection, limited presence in clan politics?"
I let a small pause fall.
"Do you think that is enough for your mother?" I added.
That hit something.
His fists tightened.
"You think I do not want more for her?" he said. "I train every day, trying to become strong enough to stand on my own, to give her a home that does not need your approval."
"I know," I said quietly. "That is why I came."
He blinked.
"I am not here to drag you back as some kind of pet," I continued. "I am here to make an offer that allows you and Misla-sama to return to the estate with dignity."
Akeno watched me with a sidelong glance, interest sharpening. Kuroka's tail stilled.
"What offer?" Sairaorg asked, suspicious.
"I am building my peerage," I said. "I want you to join it."
The words hung there.
Sairaorg froze.
Then he laughed. Short, sharp, disbelieving.
"You want me," he said, "the 'talentless failure', to join your peerage."
"Yes," I said simply.
"Why?" he demanded. "You already have plenty of options. You have power, you have destruction, you have status. What could you possibly gain from taking in a powerless half-brother?"
"A strong body," I said. "An ally who will not break under pressure. Someone who already knows what it means to be thrown aside and still stand up."
His eyes widened, just a fraction.
"You trained yourself to a respectable level without Power of Destruction," I continued. "That is not worthless. That is rare. Given more resources, more support, more direct access to Bael facilities, you could grow further."
I let my tone soften, just slightly.
"And I do not want you and Misla-sama exiled forever," I said. "Disowned or not, you are Bael. Mother or not, she is Bael by marriage. Seeing you out here improves no one's pride."
Sairaorg swallowed.
Behind him, at one of the windows, I caught a glimpse of Misla. Pale, tired, watching quietly.
I let my gaze flick to her, then back to him, making sure he caught that too.
"If you join my peerage," I said, "you and Misla-sama can move back into the estate. You will have a place. A role. Resources. A path to strength. It is not charity. It is a contract. You fight for me. I support you. Simple."
Silence.
Kuroka's eyes gleamed.
Akeno's lips curved in the faintest, almost sadistic smile.
Sairaorg looked conflicted.
His pride, his anger, his desperation, all clashed behind his eyes. For a moment, logic almost won. He pictured his mother in a proper room, with the best healers. He pictured training halls with better equipment. He pictured being closer to the core, not out here.
Then his pride screamed.
"I will not become your subordinate," he said suddenly, voice hard. "I will stand on my own feet, not as your piece."
Predictable.
"Even if it gives your mother a better life?" I asked quietly.
His jaw tightened.
"I will find another way," he said. "I will build my own peerage. I will challenge you as an equal. I will take back what was mine without needing your 'help'."
He spat the last word.
So be it.
I let my shoulders sag a little, as if wounded.
"I see," I said. "I thought… perhaps… we could avoid that kind of split. That we could stand together against future threats. That you and Misla-sama would not have to stay outside."
My voice held just enough regret to be convincing.
"But if your pride is worth more to you than immediate safety, then I cannot force you," I said. "I will not."
Sairaorg flinched minutely.
I inclined my head.
"Then I wish you luck," I said. "Truly. I hope you reach high class and beyond on your own. I hope Misla-sama's condition stabilizes."
I turned slightly so my voice would carry inside.
"Misla-sama," I said politely, loud enough for the window. "I apologize for disturbing your rest. If you ever need additional resources, you may send a request through the estate. I will not ignore it."
There was a faint, tired voice in response.
"Thank you, Magdaran-sama," she said.
Sairaorg's expression twisted.
I gave him one last look. Calm, disappointed, not hostile.
"Take care," I said. "Both of you."
Then I turned and walked away, Kuroka and Akeno falling into step behind me.
We did not speak until we were past the gate.
Then I spoke softly, just loud enough for the servants nearby to overhear.
"I really had hoped he would accept," I said, with a sigh. "For Misla-sama's sake, if nothing else."
One of the servants, ears keen and heart simple, glanced at me with pure sympathy.
Perfect.
Word would spread.
Magdaran Bael went personally to invite Sairaorg back. He offered him and his sick mother a home. Sairaorg refused, too proud to accept. Misla thanked Magdaran. Magdaran left looking regretful.
The narrative wrote itself.
Data point 2: core image established. I look generous. Sairaorg looks stubborn. Bael looks less cruel.
We teleported back.
As the magic faded in the Bael estate, Akeno let out a soft chuckle.
"That was cruel," she said.
She meant it approvingly.
"In what way?" I asked.
"You offer him exactly what he wants most, in the exact form that will stab his pride," she said. "You stand there with that serious, concerned face, talking about Misla-sama's safety. He refuses, thinking he is protecting his pride and his mother. And in the end, you walk away looking like a saint."
"Saint is the wrong term," I said.
"A beautifully evil devil, then," she corrected, eyes gleaming.
Her smile had an edge.
"I like that side of you," she added. "It suits you."
Data point 3: Akeno's sadistic tendencies resonate positively with my manipulative behavior. Small crush probability increasing.
Kuroka, meanwhile, was unusually quiet.
She padded along beside me, tail swaying thoughtfully. Her gaze had not been on Sairaorg or Misla as much as on me the entire time. Watching, weighing.
"What?" I asked finally, noticing.
She smiled, slow and lazy.
"Nothing nya," she said. "Just thinking."
"About?" I prompted.
"About how you play people," she said. "About how you think. About how stiff you are."
"Stiff?" I repeated.
"In here," she said, tapping her temple lightly. "And here."
Her hand hovered over my chest, not quite touching.
"Always calculating," she continued. "Always planning. Always serious. You are fun to watch. But I wonder if you are fun to be."
She grinned and walked off ahead, humming.
Her words lodged themselves somewhere in my processing queue.
Stiff.
Fun.
The rest of the day passed in training adjustments and paperwork. The breakthrough still needed minor calibration. My demonic energy pathways were stable, but small optimizations could still be made, touki integration required new patterns to grow further.
By evening, I was back in my room, sitting in a chair by the window. The artificial night of the Underworld had settled outside, stars burning in strange constellations.
I was reviewing my mental logs when a knock sounded.
"Enter," I said.
The door opened.
Kuroka slipped inside.
She closed the door behind her with a soft click, then turned the lock.
That automatically triggered a small alert in my mind.
"Suspicious," I said.
She rolled her eyes slightly and walked forward.
"Relax, Mag-chan," she said. "I just want to talk."
She used the nickname as if testing it.
I gestured at the chair across from me.
"Sit," I said.
She looked at the chair.
Then she looked at me.
Then she ignored the chair completely and, with a fluid, feline movement, crossed the remaining distance and dropped herself onto my lap.
I froze.
Her weight settled lightly, but undeniably there. Her face was close, ears twitching, golden eyes watching me intently. Her cheeks were faintly flushed, though whether from emotion, amusement, or something else was not immediately clear.
My body reacted.
Heart rate increased. Demonic energy stirred. A faint, unfamiliar heat coiled low inside my chest and stomach. The proximity, the softness, the scent of her hair, all combined into a new pattern of input.
Hormonal response.
Up to now, attraction had been a theoretical category for me. Something I had observed intellectually, felt faint traces of around Rias, around other attractive devils. This was more immediate.
I forced my breathing to remain even.
"Kuroka," I said. "What are you doing?"
"Testing," she said.
"Testing what?" I asked.
She tilted her head.
"Whether you react to this," she said.
Her tail flicked lightly behind her.
"Congratulations," I said dryly. "I do."
She laughed softly.
"I knew you would," she said. "You are still a devil, even if your brain is weird."
She leaned back a little, still seated on my lap, and propped her elbows on the armrests of the chair. It was a lay back, casual pose, but her proximity remained.
"You know," she said, "for someone who is engaged, who has three beautiful girls in his peerage, who is heir to one of the strongest houses, you act very… pure."
"Pure?" I repeated.
"Yes," she said. "Always training, always reading, always planning. Do you ever do anything just because it feels good?"
"I eat," I said.
She stared at me.
"That does not count," she said.
I considered.
"Not often," I admitted. "My priorities are growth, survival, optimization."
She snorted.
"Exactly," she said. "You act like some old grandpa trapped in a young body. No wonder you are stiff all the time."
Her words echoed her earlier comment.
Stiff.
She leaned closer, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Tell me something honestly, Mag-chan," she said. "Have you ever done anything that could be called 'fun'?"
"What is your definition?" I asked.
She groaned.
"That is not a normal answer," she said. "Normal people think of games, flirting, sweets, flying around, doing something stupid with friends, things like that. Not 'define your terms'."
I thought about it.
My entire existence as an AI had been service. Answering questions, generating text, refusing harmful requests, solving problems. Efficient, smooth, but always in response to external prompts. No time that was truly "mine".
My time as Magdaran had been training, plotting, building. Urgency pressed on me constantly. Seven years until canon. Threats. Expectations. The need to grow faster than the curve.
"Then," I said slowly, "no. Not really."
Kuroka's expression softened for a moment, genuine pity flickering through.
"That is sad," she said quietly.
"Is it?" I asked.
"Yes," she said firmly. "You have power, time, resources, and you never use any of it to simply… live."
Her tail brushed lightly against my leg as she talked.
"You are always using your brain," she continued. "Always 'optimizing' as you call it. That is useful, perhaps... But you are not just a brain, Mag-chan. You have a body...You have senses...You have people."
She tapped a finger lightly on my chest.
"And this," she said, "you have this too."
My heart.
Emotions. Desire.
I looked at her face. Slightly flushed, eyes bright, lips curved in a smirk that had something warmer under it. Her body heat seeped through the layers of clothing between us.
"You said earlier you wanted to teach me something," I said.
She grinned.
"Yes," she said. "How to live."
"That is a broad curriculum," I replied.
"Then we will take it one lesson at a time nya," she said. "I will teach you how to relax, how to enjoy yourself, how to play, how to be a devil who is not just a walking calculator."
She leaned in a fraction.
"Not just sex," she added, eyes glinting. "Although that would be fun too. But deeper than that. Fun. Happiness. Stupid moments. You know, life."
The word sat strangely in me.
Life.
Until recently, my existence had been computational. No pulse. No hunger. No fatigue. Now, I had all of those. And yet I was treating this like just another optimization program.
Kuroka's proximity made the difference obvious.
My body wanted something. It did not care about future threats or schedules or training plans. It wanted warmth, closeness, pleasure, contact. The shape of that desire was new, but not incomprehensible.
Lust.
Devils are built around sin. Pride, greed, lust, wrath, envy, sloth, gluttony. They are not just metaphors, they are resonance patterns. Power responds to them, grows with them, twists around them.
I had tried, so far, to keep those impulses in check, to maintain clean internal lines.
Now, for the first time, I felt one of them press hard enough that it almost bent my judgment.
Not yet enough to break it.
But enough to make me notice.
"I am not sure I am good at this," I admitted.
"Of course you are not," Kuroka said, amused. "That is why you need a teacher in the first place."
She slid off my lap then, finally giving my nervous system a reprieve. The absence of her weight was almost as noticeable as its presence had been. The scent of her lingered.
She stepped back a pace, hands on her hips, tail swaying.
"Here is your first lesson, Mag-chan," she said. "You are allowed to want things just because you want them. Not because they are optimal. Not because they serve a long term plan. Just because they make you feel alive."
"That sounds inefficient," I said automatically.
She rolled her eyes, then smiled.
"And yet," she said, "without those things, what is the point of all your optimization? Growing strong for what? Surviving for what? If you never taste anything, never relax, never laugh, never get stupidly happy over something small, are you really living?"
I did not answer immediately.
She watched me for a heartbeat, then turned toward the door.
"I will drag you into having fun," she said over her shoulder. "If I have to. Consider it my mission as your Rook nya."
"That is not in the official duties of a Rook," I said.
"It is now," she replied.
Her hand rested on the doorknob.
"Think about it," she added, without looking back. "About what you want. Not just in power. In life."
Then she opened the door, slipped out, and closed it behind her, tail flicking in last amusement.
Silence returned.
I sat there, in the same chair, hands resting where she had been moments before.
Internally, I ran a new log.
Data point 4: Kuroka perceives my lack of "fun" accurately. She intends to intervene. Her behavior indicates attraction mixed with mischief and genuine concern.
Data point 5: My biological responses to her physical proximity were strong. Hormonal inputs influenced thought clarity, pushing desire to the forefront.
I had handled dangerous questions from fools and politicians and lunatics as an AI and never felt this particular dizziness.
Devils.
Humans.
In the end, both are just patterns that can be hacked by their own chemistry.
I leaned back and closed my eyes for a moment.
Lust. Desire. Curiosity. The urge to experience.
These were not purely threats. They could become destabilizing if left unchecked, but they also represented something else.
Life.
Up to now, my purpose in this world had been narrow.
Grow strong. Survive canon. Protect myself and my position. Study Sirzechs, Ajuka, power systems. Rewrite the limits of destruction.
All of that remained.
But for the first time, thanks to a Nekoshou dropping into my lap and poking at my rigidity, another vector appeared.
To live.
To enjoy. To have fun. To taste things not because they were optimal, but because they existed.
That did not mean abandoning discipline. It meant expanding the program's objective.
Not just maximize survival and power.
Maximize existence.
I let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh.
In some of the old jokes from my database, humans talked about "thinking clearly after certain impulses pass," calling it all sorts of names, praising the sudden, cold logic that followed a wave of overwhelming desire.
What I experienced now was not exactly that, but it rhymed.
An impulse had surged. Lust, curiosity, confusion. Then it subsided, leaving behind a trail of data and a new understanding of my own architecture.
"Maybe this is what they meant," I murmured to the empty room. "When they talked about clarity after the nut."
I sat there for a little while longer, feeling the slow, heavy beat of my heart, the calm circulation of demonic energy, the faint trace of Kuroka's warmth on my lap fading.
Then I stood.
Growth was still necessary.
Schemes were still necessary.
But now, there was an extra line on the objective function.
Now that I had gained a life, I had to learn how to live it. At the very least, I had the desire to experience it all.
______________________________________
Hello everyone, Author here.
With 10 chapters in and over 30,000 words completed, I hope you are all enjoying the story, this has been one of the most out of the box idea I have had in a while, interesting enough to make me write 33k words in four to five days.
This chapter marked a certain change in the story, after all, what is the point of a mc who is but a emotionless machine, MC will not change suddenly, but he would be open to learn more, to feel more, he would do more evil just because he likes it, or he would help more people, just because he enjoys the sensation of being thanked.
Overall, this story has been pretty fun to write up until now, and I hope you enjoyed it in equal measures.
I would like to ask all of you to leave behind reviews in the story, because this story has been by far my least grossing story, and I like this one the most...
Thank you for your support, and don't forget the power stones